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Cheerleader echoes Trump, pays the price

Like a snoopin' little mouse. While it's comin' down. I shall not go. And white as winter's drifting snow my hair; Mine eyes and step, they too have feebler grown, And but few days remain to call my own, Yet there is that within my soul to-day That bids me tell thee Nay! Thou hast indeed won o'er the major part, But Youth still rules the Kingdom of my Heart!

Butterfly of flowers, Thy span of life at most a few short hours, What shame to hold thee in a prison pent. Their handiwork in admiration high I hold. Their feats of wondrous strength, in science past my ken, Their winding boulevards, and towers tall and bold. All awe my spirit as I wander idly on; All breathe to me a sense of striving, brawn and brain, And tell a tale of vast achievement nobly won From bitter struggles weft of unremitting pain. And yet when through the peaceful country- side I roam, Past richly verdured hills, through forests green and deep.

When from some mountain height beneath the vaulted dome Mine eye takes in the glory of that far-flung sweep. My heart from cities turns, and all my being thrills With love, and buoyant joy, and peace, and ecstasy — The town is Man's and mortal, but the dales and hills Immortal are and whisper of Divinity! Unheeded lie of all? Think you that yonder lyric bird For this would cease his call? He sings because he loves to sound His measures through the dell, Nor cares if he be never crowned Because he sings them well. So sings the Poet true alway, Like bird upon the wing, Who cares not for the praise, or bay, But merely loves to sing.

Took it, I, to one I know, One who sets my heart aglow, Who received it with a sigh, Held it close and tenderly. Placed it softly on her breast; And the flower there at rest Till it breathed its life away Never knew it was not May! The love of Mother for her child; A wooer by a maid beguiled; The bond between two spirits gray Who hand in hand have walked the way From Youth to Age, and still hold fast Upon the love of days long past; The tender sympathy of Man For Brothers in the human clan — Love is the Miracle I see That brings my Faith back unto me.

The apple-blossoms rarely white As I went idly on Gave me a greeting of delight With promised sweets anon.

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Deep in the wood a silver brook Ran carolling along, And from his fern-embedded nook Sent me a gift of song. I see a soul by sorrow seared, A heart 'whelmed by the harrower,j And from the seeming ruin reared The perfect sheaf of Character! He carries lavish gifts that all may win. Should you be out when he doth call some day, Or pass him by unknowing on the way, Come hither and his smiling face you'll see — I'm glad to say that he abides with me.

What though we cannot rhyme? The words of Poets passed away Still sound their numbers there, And turn the darkest, dullest, day To hours of pleasure rare.

Full text of "Echoes of cheer"

And now and then there comes to me Deep in this Heart of mine An echoing sense of Mystery That hints of things Divine. No page confined thought May this my wisdom be, But that by Nature wrought In hill, and dale, and sea — With little flashes fraught With Love's divinity. I know a sunny path that leads from Fear Up to the lovely fields of Wholesome Cheer. I'll race you there! I set the pace on through the spring-time air. But ere we'd gone a mile poor Worry stopped.

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Tried hard to catch his breath, and then he dropped, Whilst I sped on. An easy; winner of that Marathon. And since that day, when vexed by any fear, When Worry's come again with visage drear, I've challenged him to join me in that race, And found each time he could not stand the pace! To manicure the Roses' stem, And carry water unto them! To help them curl their petals rare.

And keep them ever fresh and fair — 'Tis sweet indeed to use one's powers In valetting the fragrant Flowers! I love to help the Garden choose What it shall wear, and what its hues; To keep the Pansies' faces clean. And trim the Hedge's locks of green, And ready make their vernal bowers For the receptions of the Flowers. And oh, what wages rich are mine! Fresh currency from bush and vine, All promptly paid when they are due In coin that rings forever true — No other task so richly dowers As acting Valet to the Flowers!

Finding the prizes I would seek Ever beyond, on some far peak Out of my reach, ne'er to be won. E'en when at last my course is run? Then be it so! Still will I seek those prizes vast Ever beyond, unwon at last! What care I for the bitter pace? Mine is the solace of the chase! Joy of hope that illumes despair ; Joy of conquering woe and care ; Scent of battle, the upward flight, On, ever onward toward the height — These all are mine, let destiny Hold what she may in store for me!

O make it bright, and richly lade With life's best blessings, pray, For lad or lassie, man or maid, Who celebrates to-day. If there be tears in any eyes. Or griefs that stir the soul, Place o'er them thy most smiling skies. And ease the pangs of dole.

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If there be cares that vex the mind. Or trials in the heart, O Day, be gloriously kind, And bid all woe depart.

Echoes Of Cheer From The Valley

Made a fur coat of his hide — He was quite a shaggy beast — And the rest of him we fried For our glad Thanksgiving Feast. Seek out the sheltered spots, I like to sit before the blaze And toast my shins and toes, The while the wind its roundelays About the roof-tree blows. I love to hear the windows shake. And listen to the sound The rattling panes and sashes make As zephyrs frisk around. I love to listen to the tune Of breezes in the eaves, Commingled with the soothing croon Of crackling autumn leaves.

For there it seems as though the Wood Were sending messages To one who shared and understood Its reminiscences. But Age, reflective Age, delights E'en in the twilight's fading rays In turning to the joyous sights Of unforgotten yesterdays. I know not which more joy imparts, Which holds the greater thrill, the page That tells of Hope in youthful hearts.

Or tender memories of age. Doomed to find your joys In sun-baked canons ; 'mid the noise Of barter and inhuman strife — To pass the Maytime of your life! Perhaps this is your message here, To bring relief and notes of cheer. Like an oasis In desert places! It sets the heart to beating fast To see those visions of the past, To hear once more the roundelays Of Childhood days.

For these are fair, e'en though unwon. The past is full of sweetness true. The skies of days to come are blue. Both prospects thrill, and yet I look Within no past or future book. So many treasures can be found By looking round. Eventide is throwing Shadows o'er the town ; And the stars a-gleaming. Gleaming over all Unto rest and dreaming Soon will sound the call; And the soft night creeping, Creeping o'er the way.

Here's the list of property Now belonging unto me: One small home you may behold Worthier than celestial gold ; One large heart in which there lies All the bliss of Paradise ; Love of children in great store ; Friendships reckoned by the score; Peaceful nights, and busy days; Right of way o'er golden ways; Jewelled sunsets, rippling seas. Starry skies, and cooling breeze; Acres broad in Fancy's realm; Ships with young Love at the helm ; Freedom of the firmament; Endless stock of sweet content; Faith in God, and sturdy health — Thus is itemized my wealth!

On my store of Treasure-trove In the currency of Love. The farmer prays for rain. I'm thinking of the heather. He's thinking of his grain. He thinks he needs the water To make the harvest fair. I think of someone's daughter Who's waiting over there. The point I've puzzled over All through the longish night, The farmer or the lover — Which has the greater right?

Which serves mankind the best? The more and more I ponder The harder seems my quest. Bread without love — what is it? Well, now Bring on your rain — I'll visit Myrtilla anyhow! Much happiness I trow may come to Kings Who know not play, nor romp, But live in frigid pomp.

But when at dawn my friend who sporteth wings Taps on my window-pane, and gaily sings His roundelay, I would not change my lot For all the treasure that the King hath got! There's much of pleasure in great stores of wealth If they be won by effort, not by stealth, By billionaires and such Who have the Midas touch, But when I feel within the stir of health That sets me high in Nature's Commonwealth, For all the stores of Croesus, and his line, I'd not exchange the treasure that is mine.

To joy in all things good, whate'er they be; To joy in earth, the heavens, and the sea, And find in simple ways The riches of my days — That is the test of happiness for me; That is the measure of the life that's free. Let others choose the bauble with its care — I'll live, and be contented with my share.

Dire failure was his most unhappy pass. One sought for pearls in waters of the Ind, And sank a victim of the seas and wind.

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Another sought the gold that glitters free Upon the strands far in the Northern sea, And on the beaches of that land of white His bones lie resting in the endless night. A fourth plunged in the nearer fray to win The gaudy raiment that the Trade Elves spin, And at the last found coffers full of dross — The gold was profit, but his soul was loss!

For me, in Fortune's strife, give me the part Of him that delves deep in the Mines of Heart — Not far afield, but here let me secure From them that love me treasures that endure! Speak up, O ye timid male, Time the flying spins. What's your offer for a heart Warm and full of cheer?

Let us have a bid to start! What's the bid I hear? The bid is lands, my friends — Acres, broad and fine; Full of teeming dividends In the harvest line. What a sleepy band! Heart like this for LAND? A bid of GOLD? That's the way to bid. Better than mere acres, far. That cannot be hid. Yet, who'd win a heart like this With a lump of gold? Another bid comes in. Speak up louder — FAME?

Here's a bidder hopes to win With a gilded name. But for hearts so warm and true That's a trifle low. Really you Should not let it go! Now, see here, This is bargain day. Win a heart so full of cheer With a bit of bay? Really — what's that? Speak up clear- Ah! He'd never heard of Socrates; He'd never heard of Irving; He loved the mediocrities Much more than the deserving — But when the frost was in the air he knew the fox's hole; The haunt of deer and beaver, and the wood- chuck and the mole; And he could joy in arching trees, In Heavens blue, or starlit.

And in the cold crisp autumn breeze That paints the country scarlet. The sheath's forlorn, And a sorry sight. But the blade is keen And its edge holds true, And it cuts as clean As it used to do. And the point is fine, And the steel is fair, And it cleaves the line To a breadth of hair.

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  6. It is thus the Heart In the days untold Will bear its part Though the sheath be old. And they seemed to say In that childhood day, "Come hither and play, come play! I followed them over the road again That heroes galore In the days of yore Had travailed and struggled o'er. Checkout Your Cart Price. Description Details Customer Reviews This is a pre historical reproduction that was curated for quality.

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